Page 67 of Chasing Headlines

He rolled his eyes as he pointed at the sign-in sheet. “Write the time and sign it.”

“Someone should teach you better manners.” I grumbled and scrawled my name, again, across the sheet.

He stared at the same textbook from before. Didn't look like he'd made much progress. “Have fun.” I made a face at him and turned to leave.

He caught up with me at the door. Hands tucked into his scrub pockets, he strode out into the October evening air. My shoes halted on the sidewalk.

“What? You want to make sure I leave?”

“It's the job. Supposed to walk visitors to their cars.”

“I'm fine.”

He shrugged. “Didn't ask.”

I stared at him. “I don't need you to walk me to my car, Coop.”

“I have instructions.”

“Look, you did your job. I'd feel better, honestly, if you'd just leave me alone and go back inside.”

“Whether I like it or not, your safety between this door and the one on your car, is my responsibility. If something, somehow happened to you—and that seems to be my luck these days—a lot more could go wrong for me than being permanently irritated by your attention.”

“My attention? Clearly you need your head examined. I don't care one bit what you do or don't do.”

“Good, so don't care that I'm walking you to your car.”

I huffed and growled at the same time. “Fine.” I fast-walked past him, in the direction of my sedan. He loped beside me. His footsteps rhythmic, steady. A cool breeze stirred the scent of cedar and sage into the evening air. Crickets chirped in the distance. I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, if there was a way we could be civil to each other. How he knew Dotty.

If he was actually ok.

“This is me.” I opened the door to the backseat and tossed my bag into the floorboard.

“Carolina?” He stared at my official Sabers-licensed license plate. He ran the fingers of one hand over his forehead. “Sabers fan.”

I crossed my arms against my chest. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “Had a good season last year. Was hoping they'd have a great one this year.”

I smiled. “Me too.” I cleared my throat and debated whether to say the words on the tip of my tongue. “I was hoping they'd draft you.”

He winced and looked away. “Makes two of us.”

“Do you think we could ever, you know, not hate each other? We've got four years?—”

“I'm not staying.” He ducked his head and fixed me with a look I couldn't read. His eyes red at the rims, dark circles marred the skin underneath. The way he gripped his arm, in his right hand and shrunk away—gave me the impression of a wounded animal. Who didn't trust me not to hurt it.

“I want to play major league ball, but no scout or team will touch me right now. But that'll change.Ijust have to make it so theycan'tignore me.” His irises gleamed.

“I'm sure you'll get there.”

Wild eyes met mine. And that's when I saw him . . . really saw. The days' old stubble, the tears swimming in his eyes. He looked the same as he did that day outside the hospital, the televised footage streaming onscreen like a nightmare that wouldn't quit in the light of day.

“Get away from me!” Coop hollered at the crowd of reporters. “Dad. Da-ad!” His voice broke as he pleaded with his father . . .

” . . . you really going to play the same week your motherdied?”

“Will a major league team take a chance on a grieving kid?”